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Vidar
Name: '''Vidar '''Age: 24 Race: Nord Gender: Male Height: 5'11" Birthsign: The Lover Class: Pilgrim/Rogue Appearance A medium-slim build with just the slightest hint of muscle tone. Sharp facial structure with wide-set brown eyes, with an expressive and slightly-widened brow. A mess of shoulder-length brown hair, curly and often unintentionally knotted. Thick beard peppered sparsely with hints of red, and an eccentric, thick mustache stiffened and spiked at the end in a slightly asymmetrical style, extending just past his moderately narrow mouth. Skills and known spells Shortblade, Mercantile, Sneak, Speechcraft, Light Armor. (Apprentice familiarity) Clothing / armor Worn and faded black tunic and pants, underneath a sturdy chainmail hauberk. Intermittent disfigured links in spots indicating a mortal blow suggest the mail scavenged. Dark and cracking leather bracers and boots round out the ensemble. Weapons A common steel shortsword, frequented by contact marks. It appears to be one or two fights away from scrap metal. Miscellaneous items A large pack containing a hooded cloak to ward off Skyrim's unforgiving weather, a pouch of (870) septims, an outdated map of Skyrim, three deer hides that can be quickly assembled for a crude shelter should the need arise, Two skins for holding water, and a few, thoroughly rotten Juniper berries. Personality Sees the world in shades of gray, but isn't jaded... yet. Relies on wit and misdirection rather than force and honor in conflict. Vidar is eager to try new things in order to find his place in the world. Major flaw Can be condescending, especially to those more mystically-inclined. Has a natural distrust of Bretons, particularly Reachmen. Often indecisive, preferring to wait for a satisfactory amount of information before acting, and has no qualms about lying if it serves a purpose. Background Being born in Markarth to a Nord and Imperial couple, Vidar was exposed to a different way of thinking than your traditional Nord. Honor held little value in Markarth, and it seemed the only thing that mattered was how many septims you could spread. To an outsider, it may have seemed unpleasant, but this was just life for Vidar, and before long, manipulation and self-interest were accepted as a necessary part of life in the City of Stone. Dad was a retired adventurer of no particular esteem, who took to cracking rock in one of the mines that dot the jagged face of the reach. It was certainly safer than going toe-to-toe with a frenzied woman using shards of your friend's skull as an axehead, but he had enough adventures to entertain his drinking mates and son, so he considered himself fortunate. Mother was simple-minded and a devout worshiper of Mara seemingly in defiance to the temple of Dibella in Markarth. Vidar came to find her an insufferable contrast to the city of gray. Every day he saw the real world in the stone abyss of Markarth, guards blind to anything but gold, rampant outbreaks of ataxia and rattles in the warrens, even a trip to petition the Jarl ran the risk of being crushed by a dwemer monstrosity let loose by some scholar in over his head. If the Gods did exist, they surely didn't care about Markarth. At Fifteen, Vidar began training with his aging father. Skyrim is a dangerous place, the Reach even more so, and practical fighting skills are just a part of life there. In four years he had learned enough that Vidar felt confident to begin looking for work as an adventurer, following in his Father's footsteps. The idea of killing people for a living never really appealed to Vidar, but his naturally cultivated talents of subterfuge and deception afforded him an opportunity to join a band of mercenaries who specialized in raiding Forsworn encampments. There was four of them, not including himself. Thrynn a Nord Crusader, their leader. Lledryn Anathos a Barbarian from a tribe way out in Morrowind, the first and only Dunmer Vidar had met. Orgjolf, a Nord Barbarian with a massive hammer, and Vulwulf the Tall, an enormous man with a scraggly beard and the healing prowess of a magister of Restoration, Vidar had no doubts that Vulwulf was the reason why this team wasn't just a set of heads decorating a cairn somewhere. Vidar learned their thief had recently been cut down by something they called a "Briarheart", and while Vidar didn't know much about picking locks and disabling traps, he did know how to lie about it well enough, all he had to do was look busy in front of a container and they bought into his facade raid after raid, the forsworn as it turned out, held little reverence for materials goods, and seldom secured their caches. Vidar pondered if his predecessor had also played this ruse. For such an effective party of killers, they were easy to deceive, so much so that Vidar never actually had to kill anyone until his second month with the band, which wasn't unusuall given his job within the group. The first kill, when it came, was a frenzied woman wearing half a skeever's worth of clothing. She had locked axes with Lledryn, and was scrambling to remove a small dagger from it's sheath, instinct took over and Vidar ran to help his companion thrusting his shortsword through the madwoman's back, striking vitals that probably should have been protected by some kind of armor, but these were the forsworn after all. As Vidar released the woman into a bleeding heap on the floor, Lledryn gave a nod of approval and buried his beautiful ebony axe to an unnecessary depth in his assailant's cranium to be sure of the kill. Growing up a Nord in The Reach, the Forsworn are seen as little more than animals, still it was slightly disturbing, but Vidar lost no sleep over the incident, but it stuck with him all the same. Things went rather well for the next four years. Intermittent Forsworn raids kept Vidar's pockets reasonably saturated with gold, and the undemanding nature of his "Job" had minimal risks and expenses. The bubble finally burst when hostilities between the Empire and the Stormcloaks began to intensify. Thrynn and Orgjorf left to join Ulfric Stormcloak's attempt to rid Skyrim of the Empire. Vulwulf wanted to form the party anew, but Lledryn decided it was time to head back home and make a name for himself amongst his own people before full-scale war erupted. With no job and no direction, Vidar began to sit around Markarth like a stagnant pool of water after the rains. One year in this cliffside purgatory was enough and the Legion's occupation of Markarth and the Reach finally afforded Vidar an opportunity to leave the blood-stained scar on the land that was the Karth Canyon. Imperial Garrisons stationed at Fort Sunguard had made the south east-running road out of the Hold reasonably safe for travel. Vidar packed his gear and his savings and headed East, leaving the only world he had known for twenty-four years behind.